A Private Performance (12 page)

A
S THE SEASON PROGRESSED
, Elizabeth could not warm to the Whittakers. However, their cousin, Amelia Courtney, was quite another case. Elizabeth had been for some time disillusioned with the notion of intimate friendships. Her dearest friend in Hertfordshire, Charlotte, had disappointed her by marrying Mr. Collins, whom Elizabeth deemed ‘one of the stupidest men in England'. Having thought she knew her friend well, she had been shocked by Charlotte's pragmatic view that marriage was solely a means to ensure one's comfort. Elizabeth had sworn to herself that she would not be drawn into so close a friendship again.

Mrs. Courtney was wooing her away from her reticence. She was witty, charming and playful. Elizabeth sensed Darcy's dislike of this friendship. He may have liked to condemn Amelia for flippancy, but she was like Elizabeth in reserving her witticisms for ridiculing folly.

“She flirts!” he said. “Even in her husband's presence.”

“Not with universal success,” said Elizabeth, looking at him pointedly. Indeed, there had been a change in Amelia's manner towards Darcy.

“I cannot imagine you wish me to behave towards other women in a manner that suggests I am susceptible to their charms.”

“No, indeed.” In fact, Elizabeth was not sure that he knew how to convey this susceptibility. “Nevertheless, Fitzwilliam, there was a time when you thought I was playing the coquette with you, and I understand you found that enticing.”

“That was a different circumstance altogether. The repugnant aspect of flirtation is its essential dishonesty, in the implication of false promises. I believed that the manner in which you addressed me, in Kent, promised a favourable response; and yes, it was, indeed, enticing.”

“Do you fear Mrs. Courtney will teach me to flirt, dearest?” Her lips were pursed, almost to a kiss.

“What? I should not permit it.”

“Really? Should you not?” The free playfulness of her eyes danced against the stoniness of his.

“I hope you do not wish to try me, Elizabeth.”

She did and she did not.

“It is not in my nature to flirt,” she said, “but if you understood what it is to be a woman, you might see Mrs. Courtney's behaviour as nothing more than seeking the approval of men.”

“She should pay more attention to seeking her husband's approval,” said Darcy.

“He dotes upon her. Had you not noticed?”

“It seems to me that we have a sufficiency of friends precluding the necessity for you to seek more.”

“I do not seek Mrs. Courtney's friendship; she offers it. I like her. As for our friends, they were not of my choosing. They are your friends.” Then hastily, at the sight of his expression, “I do not mean that I do not like them, for I do. Yet I have never met with anyone like Mrs. Courtney before.”

Elizabeth's eyes lost all their seriousness and came alive with laughter at some elusive absurdity. She was not with him, in spirit, at that moment. She added, “To converse with her is … a frolic in words.”

He was silent.

“Do you not yearn to frolic, on occasion, Fitzwilliam?”

“I am sorry, indeed, that my character is found to be so deficient in conversational worth,” he said.

She laughed. “Mrs. Courtney is not so blessed with good qualities that I desire to have her for my husband!”

He winced. How she caught him out, before he even knew his own feelings!

 

By the middle of March, Elizabeth was making out her invitations for entertainment at Pemberley in the summer. She brought her list into the library to discuss the contents with her husband. He rose, half bowing, from his seat at the desk, indicated the chair opposite and quickly perused the list. Seeing him frown, she said: “I hope
I have not forgot anyone you would particularly like to have with us.”

“You think to invite Mr. and Mrs. Courtney to Pemberley?”

“Certainly. They are acquainted with many of our other friends.”

“I do not wish it.”

“Why not, pray?” He walked across to the window, and stood there, looking out.

“I do not feel bound to explain myself.” He turned and looked at her, eyes coolly veiled. She drew breath sharply and, pale with anger, said: “Are you saying that you forbid it?”

“I am saying I do not wish it.” In his tone, the words were indistinguishable in meaning.

“For no reason but to thwart me; and to deny me pleasure.”

She turned to the door.

“Elizabeth, wait.”

She turned back and looked at him, her face white marble, dark eyes unfathomable. The set of her mouth almost seemed to border on scorn. He shrugged. She left the room.

He walked up and down. He was an expert in rational thought, in reason unpolluted by emotion. Yet, try as he might, he could not form a satisfactory intellectual appraisal of this situation, in which reason could be reconciled with his feelings.

 

They were to dine that evening with Lady Reerdon and some of her friends, before going on to the theatre. Mr. Glover's new comedy was to open.

Wilkins so enjoyed turning her lady out well. Tonight, though, she found her mistress a little hard to bear with. She was angrily preoccupied and would not take any interest in her dress. She had come from her bath, and stood, eyes smouldering, as Wilkins adjusted her petticoat.

She was rehearsing a little speech, but could not feel satisfied with it. The foundation of her esteem for her husband was his sense of honour, and she believed he had transgressed that now. Wilkins slipped the new gown over her mistress's head. Of the palest silvery
silk, it was so cunningly trimmed that Elizabeth was distracted by her own reflection. She sat and watched as Wilkins drew up her thick hair into a smooth roll, then artfully teased out curls around her ears and onto the back of her neck. The maid picked up her mistress's hair ornament, a recent gift from Darcy.

“Not that one, Wilkins.”

“Have you changed your mind, madam? I recall you chose the colour of the gown for its match with this light-coloured silver.”

“I did, indeed. Go ahead.”

Elizabeth indicated her velvet wrap, and Wilkins held it while she slipped it on.

Wilkins watched as her mistress descended the stairs. Darcy emerged from the drawing room and bowed. She inclined her head.

“You look … enchanting,” he said, his mood very formal.

“I thank you, sir.”

He offered his arm. She took it. They turned and went down to the hall, acknowledged the footmen but slightly, and went out to the carriage.

 

Wilkins turned as Darcy's valet appeared on the landing, at her side.

“Dear, dear, Mrs. Wilkins, a black humour tonight!” he chuckled.

“I do not understand your meaning, Mr. Benson.”

“Do you not? You have not been with your lady long. I have been with my gentleman since he first went up to Cambridge.”

Wilkins bridled up. “I know my mistress every bit as well as you know your master, Mr. Benson, even if you have been with him since the days of Cromwell.”

“You fear your lady will get the worst of it? Let's put a sixpence on it.”

“Mr. Benson! Gamble on our employers' quarrels? Sixpence, indeed! You must have sixpences aplenty.” She stalked off upstairs.

“Thruppence?” he called up after her.

 

The atmosphere in the carriage was thick with silence, but the ride was short. Lady Reerdon's peerless grace smoothed their entrance wonderfully. Elizabeth had not imagined how easy it could be to put anger aside for an evening. The moment his mother turned to her next guests, Lord Reerdon carried Elizabeth off to introduce her to a cousin who was eager to meet her.

At dinner, Elizabeth and Darcy were seated in reasonable proximity, but both were caught up in conversation with others. When the ladies withdrew, Lady Reerdon insisted on Elizabeth sitting by her, and the countess's discreet warmth of manner was very soothing to her young guest's feelings. The gentlemen did not tarry over their port, as the play was to start at ten o'clock, the last presentation of the evening.

The theatre was full and noisy with the chatter and movement of so many people. In the pit, the lower orders scanned the gentry in the boxes and gallery, nudging their friends and pointing out the sights to each other. From those lofty seats, opera glasses and glances were discreetly employed for much the same purpose. Every seat in Lady Reerdon's box was taken. They had an excellent vantage point, both to see and be seen.

Opposite, the marchioness was seated in the front of her box. She bowed to Lady Reerdon; then, quite pointedly, to Elizabeth, an honour noted by many. Elizabeth turned to Darcy, with a smile, but she could not tease much of a smile in return. Darcy would be saturnine, but Elizabeth could not quell her excitement for the play to begin.

“This is the first public performance I have seen of a work by one of the marchioness's protégés,” she said to the countess.

“Has Mr. Glover discussed the play in your presence?” Lady Reerdon replied, entering into her pleasure.

“Indeed he has. We have heard much about it, and the playwright has read extracts of it at Lady Englebury's Tuesdays.”

Several of the countess's friends looked at Elizabeth with wonder. Neither the fortunes nor connections of any of this group had secured for them the privilege Mrs. Darcy had gained without effort.
She was unaware, watching for the play to begin. Then thunderous applause broke out as a woman strolled onto the stage, a great bunch of dark curls piled on her head. Mr. Glover would have been highly gratified to obtain Mrs. Jordan for the leading role in his play.

At interval they received a note from the marchioness, desiring Elizabeth and her husband to join her in her box.

“You must go. I insist,” said Lady Reerdon. “I shall not be quite bereft of company.” After a polite exchange, the Darcys left her.

Frederick leant forward to whisper: “Mother, Mrs. Darcy would be an ornament to a coronet.”

Behind her fan, his mother said: “I like her exceedingly well, Frederick, as you know, but I would not have you marry one such, though she came with a million pounds.”

“Why ever not?”

“Hush, my dear. You are dazzled by her wit and charm. Behind them, she possesses an intelligence so keen it would cut you.”

“What of Darcy, then? Will it not cut him?”

The countess looked at her son. All the maternal fondness in the world could not blind her to the disparity between Frederick's intelligence and Darcy's.

“If he is cut, it will not be by her wits,” she replied. “However, he has met his match, I believe.”

His lordship's reply was buried in the applause that met Mrs. Jordan's return to the stage.

The marchioness had seated Elizabeth near her, and Darcy took a seat behind her, where he had a view of his wife's profile. The rest of the play was very humorous; even Darcy was heard to laugh. At the end, Mr. Glover came onto the stage, to the great appreciation of the audience. He had an announcement to make.

“Mrs. Jordan is to pay me the great compliment, and us all the delight, of singing a new song.” Enthusiastic applause broke out. “While the words are my own …” he bowed in response to another noisy accolade, “I am indebted to an anonymous composer for the music. I have called it: ‘The Captured Bird'. Together, we dedicate it to ‘The Lady with the Dark, Dark Eyes'.”
Elizabeth paled. She felt her husband's scrutiny and glanced over her shoulder, but did not meet his eyes.

Mr. Glover bowed deeply in the direction of the marchioness's box, and her ladyship nodded.

“Wot lady wiv dark eyes, Mr. Glover?” came a call from the pit.

“What lady, sir? That I cannot say.” Dark hair flopped in his eyes as he looked down to the crowd.

“The one wot 'e sees in the looking glass,” cried another. Guffaws broke out from below, while titters could be heard from the gallery. Glover stood motionless, dismayed. A missile landed by his feet.

“Come off, Mr. Glover,” hissed the manager. He stumbled into the darkness of the wings as Mrs. Jordan swept past him.

“She's plump li'l bird,” laughed someone. “She'd not be 'ard to catch.”

“Hush!”

In no time the little round actress on the stage had two thousand souls mesmerised and weeping for her, as she sang:

“My wings are broke against these bars.

Release me, from my prison,

Set me free.”

 

In the crush of people leaving the theatre, Elizabeth and Darcy were forced to spend long minutes standing, together, her hand on his arm, while they waited for an opportunity to descend the stairs. The touch between her hand and his arm seemed almost irksome, as acquaintances pressed around them; the silence between them heavier for the constant necessity of conversation with others. At last they went down.

Darcy got in beside her and sat as motionless as the carriage, which could not move in the crowd of vehicles. All her anger over his refusal to receive her friends at Pemberley came rushing back. It was doubled, nay tripled, by the reaction she sensed in him, to Mr. Glover seemingly dedicating his stupid song to her, though no-one else in all of London could have known to whom the buffoon referred. She stifled a yawn. These last several evenings seemed very long.

He glanced at her, barely visible in the dark of the carriage. It occurred to him that he knew as little of her manner at Lady Englebury's as he could see of her now. How did she look, in that salon? What did she say? Did she look open and happy, as she seemed when talking with Lady Englebury in the theatre? Or was she brittle, and teasing? What need had she of those people?

“What do these people mean to you, Elizabeth?” he asked. His question was abrupt, even to his own ears.

“Of whom do you speak? Lady Reerdon? Mrs. Foxwell?”

“You are perfectly aware of whom I speak; I refer to the marchioness and all her cronies.”